


life's a beech

by kaermorons



Series: Treefucker Geralt [2]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Aftercare, Angst and Feels, Creampie, Healing (Tree) Cock, I bet you thought I was done writing Geralt fucking a tree, Monsterfucking, Other, Passes the Harkness Test, Quasi-child death???, Siege of Kaer Morhen and all that entails, Treefucker Geralt, You're about to be so wrong, sentient trees
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-03-08 05:07:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26800054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaermorons/pseuds/kaermorons
Summary: After the siege of Kaer Morhen, Geralt and his tree mourn, sexily.Written for Kinktober Day 8: Aftercare/Monsterfucking/Creampie
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Tree
Series: Treefucker Geralt [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1962697
Comments: 18
Kudos: 79
Collections: Witcher Kinktober Ring





	life's a beech

**Author's Note:**

> This is the third of my 10 prompts I'm doing for Kinktober, which I'm sharing with my wonderful friends [fishie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/what_about_the_fish/pseuds/what_about_the_fish) and [anarchycox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anarchycox/pseuds/AC-DD) (link to her kinktober pseud).
> 
> See you again Sunday.

The siege took everything.

Geralt did not count the dead, for the living would eventually join them too, and the fact he was among the latter group did not comfort him as much as it should have. He’d been out on the Path three months already when he’d gotten word of the attack, a frantically-portaled message from Eskel. He used his last coin to take the portal up to the gates; the furthest place magic could reach inside the old keep. He and Roach were met with chaos.

Humans, always fucking humans, ruining things, and what they don’t understand. They’d slaughtered the mages first, then the trainees. They’d counted on the Witchers remaining to be too distressed by the deaths to fight, but they were Wolves, and they had invaded their den. Geralt had fought with everything he had, but brother after brother had been cut down in front of him until there were only five of them left, soon to be four if they couldn’t stop Ranick’s bleeding in time.

So there were four.

The pyres were so putrid, some of the bodies rotting by the time they got to them, they knew they wouldn’t be able to come back into the south wing for a few decades, the burning smell of their pack seared into their minds.

He couldn’t stand listening to Lambert cry at night, couldn’t stand to hear Vesemir’s teeth grinding at every meal, much larger than all the rest they’d had as a keep before. He’d have to get used to cutting down how much food he made. Geralt walked the grounds, and when the blood staining the stones was too much, he walked that familiar trail back out to his tree.

He’d been coming back dutifully every year since that first  _ wonderful _ time and considered their joinings to be special, so it was with a guarded heart that he approached the edge of the slightly-charred forest. Would it still be standing there? Would this one pure thing in Geralt’s life still stand?

He nearly sobbed in relief when he saw it standing, though slumping over a little bit. It had thankfully not been burned by the fires, but in the high summer, it was looking a little dry all around. The trees around it had not fared as well. His heart pulled at the thought of the several other magic trees that had sprung up around the Morhen Valley, wondered for their children. He’d have to make sure to come back to check them over, when tears did not fill his eyes.

The tree, of course, recognized his presence the moment he came over the ridge, its branches creaking in surprise as Geralt ran forward, shucking his armor and weapons carelessly behind him. He’d be there for at least the next year, just rebuilding where Kaer Morhen needed it most. Its comforting embrace, the hastily-woven nest, welcomed him readily, and he was naked and crying as soon as his body touched that familiar suspended room.

Soft, sad touches came from the “toucher tendrils,” as he’d come to call them. The “holders,” a little thicker, wrapped around him in a comforting embrace, letting his tears fall to the wood. Magic flooded the air around them, and the tree managed to croak a word:

_ “Fuck?” _

Geralt laughed; the noise almost caught in his throat as he wiped his face. Some of the “sucker” branches came up, kissing his tears away as the touchers petted his hair. He found the thought a little bizarre, but perhaps they  _ both _ needed to escape from the world for a little bit.

“Yes,” Geralt breathed. “Please. No seed.”

_ “Seed...Spring,” _ the tree agreed, the holders already pulling his thighs apart, taking his weight like it always did. It held him a little reclined, his body open and vulnerable, though kept in the safest place on the Continent, between the boughs.

More suckers came up, pressing into his mouth to stifle his sad whines, to engulf his prick again, to suck distractingly on his nipples while the touchers got him open, wet and loose. Geralt relaxed into it, giving his body over to the tree as he had for many years. This year, though, with the heat of the cruel summer bashing over the woven nest’s roof, Geralt shifted a little, rocking down onto his favorite branches: the “fuckers”.

There were only a few of them, but Geralt knew them all quite well after several long nights in the tree’s winter nests. It doesn’t take long for Geralt to come, the exhaustion pulled from his body like a familiar embrace, his mouth flooding with grateful slick from the vine at this mouth. In the winter, the slick tasted berry-sweet and crisp, like sugared cranberries. In the spring, it was a bright and green flavor, herbaceous and flowering, and in the autumn, it was a warm, smoky hearth-flavor that warmed him from the inside out each time.

In the summer, or perhaps it was just this summer, it tasted like salt, like fresh-cried tears and a little like the sacred pine with which they stacked the pyres. Geralt couldn’t help welling up at the taste, understanding the tree wanted its release as well. He told himself it just tasted like come, but that made it a little more jarring - was the tree giving him that feeling of being with another  _ person? _ Geralt sucked harder, more of that taste bursting across his tongue and distracting him, sending his vision a bit dizzy and sparkly. The tree groaned in response and pressed a fucker vine up inside of him, letting him feel that burning stretch he loved so much about their coupling.

Geralt lost himself to it, crying as he took his pleasure, the tree somewhat crying as it took its own. Magic pulsed a little through a wide radius around the tree, and it changed its structure, its roots so that it wouldn’t give Geralt it’s regular six seeds of spring. The tree changed its slick’s viscosity, making the taste a little brighter and more bitter, like how Geralt’s tasted.

And suddenly, Geralt was being filled, and he knew it was much different this time.

He groaned as his body took the tree’s come, the same summer-hot heat of come from a prick, the same heady scent of sex as in any brothel or make-do closet with Eskel. The thick fucking branch stayed inside of Geralt, holding him full of its come, though he was already filled to the brim, bred to capacity like a bitch in heat.

Geralt came again, feeling the vine in his mouth pull out, and shoot its spend across his face. They both came down from the high, the vines withdrawing a bit, and Geralt finally felt that inexplicably  _ human _ feeling of come dripping between his thighs, out of his ass. The sensation was so overwhelming, knowing he’d never lay with them in winter again, that he began to cry in earnest.

He mourned and wept for what seemed like hours, gentle willow branches weaving over his body in a blanket-like hold.

The tree mourned with him, knowing that its first child with Geralt, the one that usually greeted him in autumn, was gone as well. No longer could the tree feel its connection there, the roots dead, chopped by swords that meant no end but a bloody one. The sapling had never known to protect itself, always believing in the kindness Geralt had shown it. The others connected to them were weakened, but at the very least, still alive.

The tree rubbed gentle circles into its Witcher’s shoulders, getting out the knots there and sharing in his grief. It used only the softest leaves to clean the come still oozing out of him, and only the gentlest boughs to hold him secure and steady. It wove twigs and flowers, the ones that survived through summer, throughout Geralt’s hair until he looked a mess to anyone else.

Not to the tree. They had each other, and Geralt had always been beautiful, though more attractive, perhaps, now that he only wore the tree’s bark and seed, nothing else. Geralt shivered a little as the come dried against his skin, but fell into a soft doze.

When the sun set that evening, many hours later, Geralt returned to the castle, still just as tired and spent as he’d been when he had finished fighting a few weeks past. His brothers did not ask where he’d been, nor why he smelt of come, and by the time Geralt awoke three days later, they’d forgotten to bring it up altogether.

It was a scent that stayed with him for many years.

**Author's Note:**

> Come yell at me about the tree on [tumblr](https://kaermorons.tumblr.com/).


End file.
